Haze and the Hammer of Darkness

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “The right to personal representation is highly overrated, not to mention one of the greatest contributors to corruption in governments that are theoretically democratic and/or representative.”

  “If you wouldn’t mind explaining that point…”

  “You don’t see why?” Lyvia’s voice was tart.

  “No. I don’t. How can someone possibly represent a group or a district or whatever without being able to meet with them?”

  “First, anyone who is eligible for election has to have lived in the same area with those they represent for at least ten years, and no one can be elected to the House of Tribunes who is less than forty-five. We don’t much care for representatives who haven’t been successful in something else first. Second, anyone can petition them and send them concerns. They just can’t do it face-to-face.”

  “And image-to-image is different?”

  “All images are recorded. Permanently.”

  Roget began to see where the explanation was headed. “Subject to recall?”

  “Subject to examination by the House of Denial and by any concerned citizen.”

  “But some people don’t present themselves well when it’s not in person. They need to have physical feedback.”

  “For what? To play on the emotions of the representative? To influence by other than the merits of their position? To override careful judgment with an upwelling of sincerity?” The scorn in her voice was biting. “Or worse, to offer or suggest indirect favoritism? Or an out-and-out bribe?”

  “How do people know what their constituents are thinking? Do they have to rely on polls or surveys?”

  “Polls and surveys are prohibited.”

  That was another shock to Roget. “And you think you allow freedom of expression?”

  “Anyone can say anything that’s truthful to anyone through any commnet and in any public venue. You might remember that. They just can’t contact others on an organized basis and ask what those others think. That also applies to debates and discussions in any governmental forum.”

  “That doesn’t sound exactly like representative government.”

  “It’s very representative, Keir. It’s a systematized way of avoiding political mob rule where government bases its actions on what people think they want rather than on the best judgment of the representative.”

  “What about businesses? Can they survey the public to see what people want to buy? Or is that prohibited as well?”

  “No. They have to offer the best they can and learn from their experiences. We try to reward leadership, not followship. We’re not interested in following the lemminglike path that doomed the old United States and most of the Euro-derived so-called democracies.” Lyvia paused, then asked, “Have you seen enough here?”

  With only an empty chamber before him, Roget had. He nodded.

  Lyvia led the way back out and then around the front foyer and toward the rear of the building before turning to her right into a wide corridor leading toward the middle of the capitol.

  Roget looked down the corridor, presumably to the Judiciary. “Are we going to see the justices?”

  “We can walk down there and see what’s in progress. Visitors aren’t allowed in the chambers, but whatever is happening in the chamber is projected out into the main foyer. The same is true of the House of Tribunes and the House of Denial.”

  “Aren’t you concerned that someone might present a false record of the proceedings or the debates?”

  “With seven political parties and a very enthusiastic crop of attorneys who would love to seize the assets of anyone who did that? It’s rather unlikely. Also,” she added, “distortion or falsification of records of government proceedings is one of the few offenses that can merit a death sentence.”

  “But not murder?”

  “Corruption of government kills and abuses everyone, and it’s always for personal or professional gain, not for social improvement. In any case, we have very few murders,” Lyvia said dryly. “Murder and child abuse are among the few offenses that result in a sentence of permanent alterations to brain functioning.”

  “And some of those in Manor Farm Cottages are there for that reason?”

  “Possibly. There are some who cannot function in society after such treatment.” Lydia resumed walking toward the Judiciary chamber.

  Roget studied the corridor that seemed vaguely familiar, totally unfamiliar as it was, walking several meters before a wash of blackness swept over him. He took an unsteady step, then blinked. When he opened his eyes, the corridor was different.

  Fluted columns lined both sides, and it was narrower, and the ceiling lower. The floor was a mixture of a reddish stone and one of grayish white, both highly polished. He stood in the middle of a group of people, all very young. Beside him was a tall and willowy brunette girl.

  “Another explanation,” she murmured, her eyes flicking to the front of the group where a fresh-faced guide had stopped.

  “This corridor is known as Statuary Hall. That is because of all the sculptures that have been placed here over the years.…”

  Roget/Tanner took in the guide’s words as his eyes drifted from statue to statue. He recognized one or two, but most were unfamiliar, although he probably would recognize their names from American history.

  “Joe…” whispered the youth to Roget’s right, “Cari said you got your call. When do you leave?”

  “In May just after the end of the semester.”

  “Where are you going?”

  Roget—or Tanner—didn’t want to answer that question. He just smiled. “Wherever they send me.”

  “You must know…”

  Roget/Tanner shrugged. “It doesn’t matter.” Except it did. That he did know. He’d hoped for a mission somewhere in the Far East, but he was going to Peru. His parents had said that the country was like southern Utah, with red hills and mountains, but the Andes were far more imposing than places like the Wasatch Range or even Brian Head or Cedar Breaks. He’d wanted to improve his Mandarin, but it appeared that he’d just have to learn Spanish as well.

  “This way,” announced the guide, as the tour resumed.

  “You could be a senator someday, Joseph,” suggested the brunette in a low voice.

  “I’m more interested in being a pilot, Cari.”

  “I suppose I could get used to being married to a pilot.”

  Roget/Tanner managed not to gape. He and Cari had dated, but he’d never tried anything serious, and he certainly hadn’t proposed. How could he, with a mission coming up, three more years of college, and, if he were fortunate, flight training after that?

  “You’ll be more than a pilot. I know that.”

  “You know more than I do.” His eyes drifted to the small rotunda ahead.

  He could feel dizziness creeping up over him …

  Roget found himself sitting on a stone bench. To his right and across the foyer was a holo showing a justice in a gray robe behind a judicial podium, looking down at a woman in a formal singlesuit and black jacket.

  “… did the defendant ever provide you with any evidence about the accuracy of the assertion in the prospectus…”

  “Keir?” Lyvia’s voice was strained.

  That surprised him. “Yes. I’m … here.” He’d almost said that he was back.

  “You walked down the corridor as if no one were around you, and you were saying things about being a pilot.”

  “Flashbacks,” he admitted. He wasn’t about to admit that they weren’t his flashbacks, not exactly. “It happens sometimes.”

  “And they sent you to Dubiety?”

  “FSA doesn’t know.”

  “Or they don’t care.”

  That was certainly possible. “I couldn’t say.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine. They don’t happen often, sometimes not for years.”

  “When you’re under stress, I’d imagine,” Lyvia probed.

  “Not even that, necessarily.”
/>   She nodded, not in agreement, but as if she had heard what he had said.

  What was it about the Dubietan capitol? Or was it just that it was a capitol, and the first time he’d seen it?

  “We should get you something to eat. A low blood sugar doesn’t help.”

  “That might be good.” He was hungry. He was also worried. He hadn’t had a memory flashback in years, not since deep-space small-craft training, as he recalled. Dreams, yes, but not daytime flashbacks.

  24

  28 LIANYU 6744 F. E.

  By the time Roget was escorted out of the unmarked Federation flitter at the FAF base outside Cheyenne, it was late on Sunday afternoon, and the two Air Force senior rankers were most insistent that he check into the medical facility immediately. Roget did … and then spent an uneventful evening and a restless night. On Monday he was ushered from medical test to medical test. None of the results were conveyed to him, and he had a quiet dinner in the officers’ dining room. He slept somewhat better on Monday night, but not enough better that he didn’t have vaguely uneasy dreams that he could not remember when he woke.

  At nine thirty on Tuesday, two FSA guards appeared and “requested” that he accompany them in an unmarked electrocar to the base security building. He did, and at almost precisely ten hundred he was escorted into a large office that held a large, plain, and impressive desk without a visible console, and three chairs set before the desk. The walls were plain, doubtless to enable projections. Sitting behind the desk was a silver-haired Sinese in a colonel’s uniform.

  “Agent-Captain … please sit down.” The colonel’s voice was pleasant, almost musical. “You’ve had a rather trying month, it appears.”

  “I’m fine, sir.”

  The colonel smiled politely. “That’s what the results of your medical tests show. You’ve recovered completely from the injuries of your previous assignment. Outside of a few abrasions and bruises, your body shows no signs of further abuse.” The colonel paused. “According to the medical staff, there is no apparent physical reason why you should have been found unconscious outside the sculptor’s studio, but the readings from your internals and the medical personnel present confirm that your consciousness had indeed been affected.”

  In short, Roget thought, the doctors had confirmed that he hadn’t been faking, and they were all worried.

  “Do you have any thoughts about this, Agent-Captain?”

  Roget’s internals could sense the various energy flows around the room, and he had no doubts that every bit of interrogation and surveillance technology known to the FSA was trained on him. “Yes, sir. I do.”

  “Please proceed to offer those thoughts.”

  “As I reported earlier, I was injected with an unknown substance by the Sorensen woman. Shortly thereafter, I suffered extreme dehydration and disorientation. I would surmise that the efforts involved in resolving the situation in St. George triggered a follow-up episode. Since I have experienced no additional symptoms, and since the medical tests, from what you suggested, sir, apparently indicated no remaining unknown substances in my system, it would appear to me that it’s unlikely that there will be future occurrences.”

  The colonel nodded. “Your report suggested that this Danite terrorist organization might pose a regional threat to the Federation. I would be interested in why you think so—beyond the reasons you stated in your reports.”

  “I don’t know that I have reasons beyond what I reported, sir. The terrorists seemed almost contemptuous of the Federation, as if we had no idea what we were up against. The fact that I could be assaulted with relatively sophisticated medical techniques openly in a public restaurant also suggests a wide degree of at least tacit public support.”

  The colonel’s laugh was soft, short, and scornful. “The Agency has been aware of the Danites for many years. They meet and plot and think we know nothing, and so long as they do nothing, we allow them to have their secrets. When they do something, as they did in St. George, we act, as you did, and for a number of years thereafter they decide that meetings and muttered words in hidden rooms amount to rebellion. Then they attempt to act, and once more fail. It is predictable. It has been so for centuries.”

  “The Sorensen woman was a Federation employee,” ventured Roget.

  “All her communications were monitored. We thought they might use her as a lure. Did they not do just that?”

  “I was aware that she had ulterior motives from the first, sir, as my reports indicated.”

  “As you should have been and were and as has been the case for generations. They seem to think that we see nothing and hear nothing when everything is seen and heard.” The colonel paused. “You reported on the geothermal power units, but your report was less detailed on the chamber adjoining the one where you observed the terrorists. Can you elaborate on your report?”

  “I hurried through it. I was trying to find an injector that might have held an antidote. It looked like a combination of a small manufacturing operation and a laboratory. The facility under DeseretData was used to fabricate nerve shredders, but I couldn’t determine what the equipment beneath the sculptor’s building was used for. The lab looked more like a very professional medical facility. As I reported, Marni Sorensen had told me she had a background in biology.” He didn’t mention her doctorate because he wanted to see how the colonel responded or avoided dealing with that fact. “When I reported in, I was told to vacate immediately. So I didn’t go back and make a more thorough investigation.”

  “Her background didn’t deal with biological terrorism, and she would have known any number of agents that might have disrupted your system without registering on your internals. She would not have needed a laboratory so elaborate for that. It would appear that either someone else had to have been involved or that she had some other project of value to the Danites. Would you have any idea who or what those might be, Agent Roget?”

  “No, sir. None of those I investigated had that kind of background, not that I could determine.”

  “A pity. We will find them. We always do.” The colonel paused. “After consulting with the medical staff, we have decided that you will be granted three weeks’ convalescent leave. You will report back here for medical tests three weeks from Thursday. If those tests indicate that you are fully recovered, you’ll be posted to your new assignment. If not, but it appears that you will recover, you will be temporarily assigned to analysis.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “That will be all, Agent-Captain. You are free to leave the base at your convenience. If you choose to spend any or all of your leave here, you may request a room in the officers’ quarters. If you wish to spend time elsewhere, you’re authorized to receive the government travel rates at any lodging establishment, but the cost is your responsibility.”

  Roget stood. “Thank you, sir.”

  “Thank you. You managed to keep a messy situation relatively quiet. All the people of St. George know is that a fire brought an inspector and several people vanished. That’s enough to keep them looking over their shoulders.” The colonel looked down at the desk.

  Roget inclined his head politely, then left the office, closing the door quietly.

  The only person outside was the colonel’s assistant, an older woman who said politely, “Good day, Agent-Captain.”

  As he walked from the security building to wait for a shuttle outside, he considered his options. Three weeks’ convalescent leave. He frowned. His sister lived in the Fort Greeley complex that had grown up after the reduction of Denver, and that wasn’t all that far from Cheyenne on the maglev. He’d have to see if he could visit there for a few days, not that he’d impose on her for a bed, but he hadn’t seen her in several years, not since she and Wallace had moved to Fort Greeley because he’d been posted away from Noram and couldn’t justify the expense of transoceanic travel. He wouldn’t stay that long because he didn’t want to spend too much of his pay on lodging.

  First, though, he wanted to do some
research after he checked out of the medical center.

  He had to wait almost a quarter hour for the shuttle, and it was another quarter hour before he was back at the base medical facility. By the time he collected his few personal items and authorized the various bureaucratic acknowledgments and releases, another hour elapsed.

  Finally, some two hours later, he was settled into a small room in the officers’ quarters, using his monitor to access the commnet. His first inquiry was for Joseph Tanner.

  The response was close to immediate. While there were almost a hundred entries, none of the living Tanners, or those who had died in the last century, fit his criteria. When he eliminated them, just three remained, and only one fit his criteria. It was comparatively short.

  Joseph Jared Tanner, Senator, United States of America 2039–2127 A.D., reputedly a former naval military pilot who was known as an opponent of “excessive” social programs and a staunch opponent of global federation … instrumental in the temporary resurgence of U.S. military forces before the Wars of Confederation …

  That was it. Roget still smiled. Joseph Tanner had been real. His smile faded when he thought about how few Joseph Tanners remained in the records once they died. Fame—even remembrance—was indeed fleeting.

  His next inquiry was on Marni Sorensen. Interestingly enough, there was but a single entry matching her name.

  Marni Carpenter Sorensen, (3162 F. E.–) B.S., M.S., Deseret University, Ph.D., University of California–Davis. Coauthor, “RNA, ‘Junk’ Matter, and Memory Retention,” Noram Medical Journal …

  Following her name was a listing of articles and publications, but the last was dated some five years earlier. Given the delays caused by peer review and editorial matters, that suggested she had stopped researching and publishing when she’d returned to St. George. He frowned. She’d stopped publishing, but not researching. He also wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that she’d contacted some of Tanner’s descendants. Had she also obtained the basis of what she had used on him from Tanner descendants? Or from Saint genealogical tissue samples? He would have bet on one of those and given odds. But he wasn’t about to say anything, because he’d either end up out of the FSA and being a medical guinea pig somewhere … or worse.